


Lion of My Heart

by attackamazon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Courtly Love, Dominance, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage, Politics, Pregnancy, Romance, Rough Sex, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:25:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4754849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attackamazon/pseuds/attackamazon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the aftermath of the Grand Ball, Gaspard finds himself in the unenviable position of being angry at the Inquisitor for losing him his chance at the throne while simultaneously needing her help in his ongoing struggle against his cousin Celene. When she shows up in his study unexpected on a rainy night with an offer of compensation, he has no idea what he's in for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lion of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dragon Age kink-meme. This is my first piece of smutty writing. Many fan flutterings and vapours were had while writing this piece due to my latent cultural Southern belle-ness, but I really liked the prompt and I've always thought Gaspard would be a much better Emperor than Celene when you really got down to it, but, you know, Blackwall disapproves and we can't have that. So, this was an interesting way to explore other possibilities. Also, I got to briefly employ my two years of college-level French, so now my education is vindicated. Enjoy!

The night is dark beyond the window panes, the glass spattered with diamond drops of rain that glitter in the flickering glow of the study. Below the blank-eyed busts of Orlesian heroes past, the illumination of candles creates a warm cave of light around the large ornately carved desk that dominates the room. The house is silent at this late hour, the servants at their rests for the evening. It is easy to forget that there is anything at all outside of this room, Archduke Gaspard de Chalons thinks as he bends over his papers, and that is why this is his favorite time of the day - and also why he is not yet in his bed, though all the rest of his household is sleeping. The weight of Empire presses in on his life from all sides, at all hours save this one. He dips his quill into the inkwell and continues writing - a letter long overdue at this point - and listens to the steady cadence of the rain as it soothes away the concerns and irritants of the day.

His throne is, if not lost, then postponed indefinitely. In truth, this would not bother him nearly so much if there were a competent ruler already upon it, but Celene - his cousin, the Lioness of Orlais - holds the Empire precariously between her lovely hands and it is slowly slipping. He is certain of it. And that cannot be. Orlais must endure. And so Gaspard must endure. He owes it to the people who would be swept away in the fires of chaos that would ensue. He owes it to the chevaliers who fight and die and bleed their crimson heart's blood onto the fields of battle and honor for the sake of the Empire. He pauses in his writing before his hand can tremble under the force of the rhetoric in his mind and break the quill nib or blur the words on the paper. This letter is an extension of that debt to those who would look to him for order in this disordered world, but it is also for him, too. And so it must be perfect. He sighs, and considers how best to frame the words that will make an ally of a woman who does not need him - who seems to need nothing and no one - and yet who holds the fate of all Thedas in her fist.

"Do you ever sleep,  _mon ami_?"

The voice is feminine.  Its tones are rich and warm and dulcet. His many long years of training have conditioned him not to flinch in the face of unforeseen circumstances and so Gaspard does not look up immediately. He knows who that voice belongs to, though he does not know how she comes to be here in his study tonight. The Inquisitor is an enigma of a woman, more proficient in the Great Game than a Marcher should be, and it seems there is no hidden place that is safe from her holy gaze. He applies the pen to paper once more, finishing his sentence. If she is here to talk, then he will listen. If she is here to kill him, she is in no hurry to do so and so he will not hurry either. The scratching of his quill fills the room.

"I spend my days beating back the vines that grow up through the cracks of my home and threaten to pull it down around me. When I sleep, they only grow faster," he tells her as he writes, his voice coming out level and unconcerned.

He is not afraid of her as he knows Celene is and realizing this pleases him. He does not fear death, only dishonor. And though she holds evidence of the treachery that he had intended in a weak moment, it is not fear that he feels when he thinks of her. There is nothing that the Lady Inquisitor can do to him that he has not faced down many times before. And yet he feels the tension of her presence there where she stands observing him in the corner of his study. His face is bare, his mask set aside for the evening, and he feels the nakedness of his skin acutely.

There is only the sound of the rain and his quill for a moment and then Gaspard hears the light step of her approach. Still, he does not look up. There is a long dagger hidden on the underside of his desk, but he does not reach for it. He knows that she is quicker than him, unburdened by years and battle injuries. If she has come for his life, then it will be his experience that saves him, not his blade.

"And yet," observes the Inquisitor, amused, "even the most dedicated of gardeners would not neglect to appreciate the beauty of the flowers, for that is the very reason he uproots the weeds."

The letter is as finished as it needs to be. It awaits only his signature, and Gaspard bestows it. His name lacks the customary flourish of his station, but he knows that the recipient will notice and appreciate this. She is very close now. He can smell the faintest scent of almond blossoms, clean and sweet and alluring. In the corner of his vision, a pale hand appears at the edge of his desk, the long white fingers sliding along the decorative carvings there. He reaches for the candle and sealing wax without glancing up from his work, his refusal to look at her his gambit in the game she is playing with him now.

"Even the flowers in my garden can be dangerous," he tells her, unconcerned, waiting for the red wax to melt over the candle flame. "Poisonous as they are."

He knows from the way her fingers pause that she understands the accusation. She had come to the Winter Palace as his guest. She had entered on his arm. And, before the end of the evening, she had robbed him of his throne and destroyed his plans. He should be furious at her - remembering it, he feels his resentment stir - but his anger is tempered by the acknowledgement of a part in the Game well-played. Still, he reminds her now, so that she will recall the moment that he had extended his hand to her, and so that - before she does whatever she has come here to do - she will remember how she repaid his hospitality.

"Therein lies the paradox of flowers,  _mon ami_ , _"_  she replies, her voice soft now, as warm as a lover's. "The most poisonous are often the most beautiful."

The wax drips crimson, like thickened blood, onto the folded letter and Gaspard stamps it with his signet ring before it can cool and harden, sealing the entreaty inside.  _Mon ami_. It is strange to hear the world "friend" from her lips, but there is something in the word that makes his spine tingle as if he were being pricked along his shoulders and neck by a thousand needles. The moment has come. He looks up at the woman standing not an arm's length away from him, now. She is dressed in a dark surcoat and breeches, her jet-colored hair falling loose and long about her shoulders. It had been intricately and elegantly knotted when she had attended the Ball, and he had wondered then how it would look loose and mussed and splayed across the covers of his bed. She would have made a fine conquest for the night he should have ascended to the throne of Orlais, and she had welcomed his preliminary advances then with the same smile that she fixes upon him now.

He studies her face, which is as beautiful a noblewoman's should be, but it is her eyes that capture his attention now as much as they had the first time he had met her - green orbs like a cat's that glitter at him with a sly confidence that far surpasses her age. He does not try to read the intent behind her smile, for he has known too many men and women whose smiles hide only daggers and destruction. It is her eyes in which he tries to divine the future now.

"A cruel beauty, then, to poison the gardener that tends it and not the weeds," he tells her, feeling the hard tension rise into his voice at last.

It is his chief flaw, he knows, to let his anger get the better of him in the end, but he cannot help it now. There is a part of him that wants her to suffer shame as he did that night on the balcony as she revealed their secrets in turn and compelled him to take his stand behind Celene rather than in the place that was ordained for him since birth.

"And yet you still live," replies she, her tone pleasant though this is a sharper jab, reminding him that his plan would have failed anyway - that Celene had already sussed it out and had intended to let him damn himself before the court and, likely, in the eyes of his chevalier brethren, too.

It was the Inquisitor's interference that had saved him in the end, and he can neither hate her nor forgive her for that.

Gaspard rises now, standing from his desk to face her. He is taller and heavier of body than she. Though he has heard tales of her skill with a blade, and though he is no longer the fighter that he once was, he is still strong enough that overpowering her at this close range would be easy enough. This knowledge cannot have escaped her, too, and yet she gives no indication that she fears him and that angers him, as well.

"Are you not satisfied with your victory, my lady?" he asks her, acidly. "All the great powers of Thedas shudder under the gaze of your burning eye, and yet you come here to trade riddles with me. What further satisfaction do you require?"

Her response is not what he expects. The Inquisitor raises her hand from the desk, but not to produce the flash of a knife. The touch of her fingers on the stubble of his jaw, the smooth skin of the back of her palm as she gently touches his bare face, are a more surprising gesture and one that paralyzes him. Her chin tilts and the nature of her smile changes.

"I wondered what you looked like when the masks were stripped away," she tells him. "And now I know. Is that so terrible _, mon ami?_ "

Her touch ignites a hunger in Gaspard, but he does not know whether it is to drive her away or to draw her closer. His blood surges. His loins heat, remembering the image he had once painted for himself of her spread out beneath him in the darkness of his chamber while he drew his name from her lips again and again. His own lip curls, bitterly.

"We are not friends, Inquisitor."

"Then by what title shall I call you,  _lion de mon coeur_?"

Her tone takes on a teasing quality as her words, spoken with perfect inflection in his native tongue, stun him.  _Lion of my heart_. He knows that his surprise has reached his face, because her smile creases further.

"Does that suit you better?"

He stares at her, his anger still simmering under the surface but momentarily interrupted. Gaspard knows that this cannot be what it appears to be, yet he can think of no reason for the ruse. He is already, politically, at her mercy. He is no Emperor to be able to grant her favor. In fact, he is the one who must curry favor with her in order to assure that Celene does not bury him with intrigue before it is too late. Yet, here she is. Outside, a soft murmur of thunder in the distance announces the approach of the storm in earnest. A decision is made.

Before he can second guess it, with the intuition of a man who has commanded armies, Gaspard reaches up to lay his own larger hand over hers. His grey eyes never leave her green ones as he strokes down the length of her fingers and then encircles her wrist, pulling her towards him to close the last of the space between their bodies. She does not resist this, though she has now given up any physical advantage she might have had over him. He leans down, his lips almost grazing her ear, her arm pinned carefully against his chest. His other hand clasps around the back of her neck, holding her fast. He can smell the same almond flower essence on her as before, now mixed with the scent of feminine skin and hair. He can feel the faint heat of her breath on his neck and this spurs his heart faster.

"Why?" he demands of her, his voice low and throaty.

He knows that he does not need to clarify the question. He feels her hand flex uncomfortably and tightens his grip very slightly. Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste - whatever she is, she is a lady, and because of that he will not harm her unless she proves herself truly an enemy. He still has his honor. But he wants her to know that he is not afraid of her either - that she cannot control him so easily with words and secrets.

"To give you something in return for the chance that was lost," the Inquisitor tells him.

She turns her head, brushing Gaspard's rough cheek with her own. The affection of the touch sends shivers down his neck, beginning a glow in the back of his brain that increases with intensity as he feels her free hand come up to rest on his side, weaponless and gentle.

"Be  _my_  Emperor tonight,  _mon lion_. Do as you will."

 _This is surely a trick_ , Gaspard thinks, his fingers digging harder against the back of her neck, but the woman in his arms does not pull away. If she means to strike, then the opportunity to do so without harm to herself is now gone. If she is sincere . . .

 _So be it_ , he thinks. His fingers twist into her hair as he kisses her furiously, giving in to the hot spike of desire that has built continually from the foundation of his anger. She responds in kind, but this is not his aim. He wants her to understand how much she has cost him. He wants her to feel, as he did, what it is to be powerless - to be at the mercy of someone who has no reason to spare you.

He pulls her surcoat from her roughly and tosses it away. She begins to undo the clasps of her tunic, but he does not allow her even that small amount of control, pushing her back against the wall of his study between the obsidian-paned windows. Still she does not resist him, even as he pins her there, pulling open her overtunic as he trails vicious kisses that will certainly leave bruises along her neck. He rips away flimsy undergarments, his hands finding firm breasts, pinching a nipple to pull a cry of pain from her lips, but she rewards him only with a gasp.  Her arms are around his shoulders now, her fingers digging into his back through the layers of his clothes.

Her body is as supple as Gaspard had thought it would be when he first met her, her breasts full, her skin smooth. He has taken lovers often enough since his wife's death, but he could ask for no better than what is now at his disposal. At another time, he would have liked to have savored this, to have spent an evening seducing her, to have undressed her slowly and to have explored each part of her in depth before finally allowing her to yield. He grasps her between the legs, feeling the heat of her sex through her breeches as his own erection strains against his cod. She is yielded to him now, but it is not enough to satisfy him.  He wants to punish her. He needs her to feel degraded, humiliated, as he did. The Inquisitor, one of the mightiest women in Thedas, fucked and discarded like a common whore.  It is a political misstep, perhaps, but he no longer cares.  He growls against her neck in frustration and pulls her from the wall.

Papers fly onto the carpets as he bends her over his desk. Her arms are tangled in the sleeves of her tunic and he frees her from the garment, pressing a hand into the bare flesh of her back, forcing her down against the wood as he bends over her, covering her, his other hand working to unlace her breeches and then to unlace his own. 

 _Mon lion_ , she moans softly as he draws back her smallclothes, baring her lovely ass. They are the first words he has had from her lips since they began this and they inflame him further. He frees himself from his cod and plunges into her, hearing her cry mingling with his own stifled groan of pleasure.

He takes her there, roughly, her hands gripping the edges of his desk, his hands digging into her back and waist as she gives voice at last.  He feels the column of fire building in his belly, his thoughts beginning to come less clearly, and he realizes that the word she is gasping with each thrust is his name.  _Gaspard. Gaspard_. It is what pushes him over the edge into release and he bites back a roar, as if he were indeed a lion, as his body spends itself into her.

The thunder claps loudly overhead, the rain pelting against the windows now, as he falls forward, his hands supporting his weight though his chest rests against her back, their sweat mingling in the cloth of his doublet. He is still buried within her, but his anger has evaporated.  He is conscious again that it is a young woman resting beneath him, rather than simply the focus of his intense disappointment and discontent. 

 _Be my Emperor tonight_ , she had whispered to him at the beginning of this.  He has treated her roughly, but she has given herself over to him willingly - and mercy, too, is a part of rulership.

He rests a hand on her glistening shoulder, kisses the nape of her neck. There are bruises there on the softer flesh, small dark flowers against her pale skin from his fingertips and lips. He kisses each of them, gently, and feels her shift slightly under him, her breath a sigh.

"Gaspard,"she murmurs. There is no artifice in her voice, no commanding remnant of the Inquisitor. Instead, there is an unaffected tenderness in the way she says the name and hearing it touches his heart.  He caresses her hair.

" _Ma belle fleur,"_ he calls her, " _Ma fleur mortelle."_

He withdraws from her, standing somewhat shakily and straightening the ache of his back. His papers are hopelessly strewn. It will take some time tomorrow to reorganize them, he knows, but he does not care. She stands, too, her back to him. He notes the graceful curves of her neck and shoulders, the way her sides arc into her hips just so. She does not look back at him as she draws up her breeches, re-cinching them slowly, and he wonders from her silence if he has indeed hurt her.  He rights his own clothes and then picks up her tunic from where it lays crumpled on the floor of the study. She turns as he holds it out for her, glancing up at him with her vivid green eyes, but she smiles and allows him to help her slide it back on, one arm at a time. He knows then that she is alright.

"I'm afraid that your underthings will not be much use to you in their current state," he tells her, watching her begin to redo the clasps. She chuckles briefly at this, and turns, perching on the edge of the desk as she regards him.

"I consider them acceptable losses in pursuit of a greater good," she acknowledges.

He had meant for the roughness of the act to humiliate her, to impress a little of his pain onto her. He is not sorry now to see her smile, though, the expression unguarded where once it had been calculating. He reaches out for her, caressing her cheek as she had done to him earlier.

"Lion of your heart," he says, repeating her words, and tilts his head to search for the truth there in her face. "Emperor of your heart, as well?"

"Perhaps," she tells him, cryptically, her courtly smile rising up again like armor to cover the sweet openness he had seen in her a moment before. She takes his hand in hers and kisses his knuckles, though that hand had sought to cause her pain not long before. "I must go before I am missed. Do not give up hope,  _mon lion_. No one knows which way the wind may blow from hour to hour. The storms come - they will fall away again."

"And when this storm has passed?" Gaspard asks her.

He brings her her surcoat, helping her slip it on as he had done her tunic. For all the solemnity of their titles and ranks, at the base of it, he is still a chevalier and she is still a noble lady. Perhaps his lady, if he plays his part correctly.

"Then we shall see what seeds sprout when the rain has gone," she replies.

He spots the folded, sealed letter that he had been writing on the dense carpet nearby. He picks it up and then approaches her, sliding his hand around the back of her neck. He kisses her briefly - a liberty, but she returns the gesture with feeling and that answers his remaining question. He presses the letter into her hand.

"Read this when you have returned home. I do not expect an answer soon, but I should like one eventually. Maker speed you,  _ma belle dame_. Do not disappoint me by dying."

He watches as she bestows one last smile on him before turning to go. She leaves by way of the door to his bedchamber. When he follows her some minutes later, after snuffing the candles and gathering his papers, she is already gone.

It is three months before he hears from her again, though he catches a glimpse of her briefly at the battle of the Arbor Wilds, proud at the head of her companions and still alive. Only after the monster Corypheus is declared dead, only after the breach in the heavens has been healed and a new Divine sits upon the Sunburst Throne, does a letter reach him from the Frostback stronghold of Skyhold.

 _I accept_ , it says, simply. And when he travels to Skyhold to congratulate her on her victory and discuss the preparations that must now be made - when he joins her in her chambers and feels the first swelling of life in her belly beneath his hand - he understands. Celene cannot live forever. The College of Heralds has already seen what chaos can erupt when there is no apparent heir to allow the orderly transfer of power. Gaspard alone cannot change their minds, but an Empress that has been touched by the hand of Andraste, who holds the favor of the Most Holy, to whom all the crowned heads of Thedas owe tribute, and who has already provided him with an heir tinged with both her own sainted light and his royal blood, might be just enough to tip the balance in his favor.

" _Ma jolie lionne_ ," he teases her on the day they are wed and revels in the expression of fear he can detect behind Celene's golden mask as he escorts his new bride into the Winter Palace for the second time.


End file.
